


Let's Not, and Say We Did

by RIC (prussia)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (I'll add new tags as I go.), (Not all tags apply to each story...), Cold War, Drama, Ficlet Collection, Love Letters, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prussia as East Germany
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussia/pseuds/RIC
Summary: A grab-bag of PruAus fics, all starring Prussia and his love interest, Austria. Each chapter is a different story...starting off with my favorite one-shot, and eventually, as time permits, this will grow into a series of all the little fics I've written over the past few years, some of which I've never posted anywhere.For the most part, they're canon-based/countries-as-characters, though a few Human AU fics might appear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, today is my birthday, and I have no cake, no party, no presents, so...why not post something?
> 
> Yes, yes.
> 
> Here in the notes I'll make a directory of sorts, so you can find what you're looking for.
> 
> Index  
> Chapter One: Snowflake  
> \-- One-Shot; Drama; Cold War; Love Letters; Originally published on Tumblr; Written January 8th, 2014
> 
> Chapter Two:  
> \--
> 
> ***
> 
> To be honest, some of these fics I had completely forgotten about, and that's really my only excuse as to why I never published them anywhere.
> 
> Another excuse is my horrible shyness when it comes to posting my works.
> 
> And some of these fics I grew to be quite embarrassed about, and maybe that's just due to the usual apprehension of writers and artists, but then again, maybe it's a natural instinct, like, 'Wow, this fic just isn't that good. Shelve it!'
> 
> Who knows...not me.
> 
> Anyway, I love one of them, I like a few of them, and the rest...?? I'm gonna post them just to do so, and think that maybe someone will read through them while in the mood for shorter fics, and they might actually like one or two of them, and enjoy the rest at least somewhat, and that's just me doing a job, I suppose. Providing stories for the fun of it.
> 
> I mean, they're already written, and all pretty short, so this will be easier for me to edit, and hopefully a nice easy read for you. And I do plan on adding to this even as I write new stories that I don't feel are long enough or strong enough or fully-fleshed-out enough to stand on their own as separate posts on my profile. (I kinda regret not doing that when I published that trio of Christmastime stories in December 2014. Ah! And their long lost mate, the fourth and final story I wrote during that Winter Art Challenge will finally see the light of day in this collection! It was the only M-rated one, so I never shared it. Ha. I'm a baby.)
> 
> If you read this collection of stories, I do hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> And thank you, as always, for being here.

In an old coat, in a snowstorm. Holes in the fabric, patches on the sleeves. Moth-bitten, and careworn. Hair in his eyes. Wisps of silver, and the snow swirled down: soft and heavy all at once.

Prussia opened his mouth, and caught a snowflake on his tongue.

Trudging along a wall, in black lace-up boots. Ready for combat, and looking for a fight, but finding nothing but a mile of white and concrete. Footprints of the men who came before him. An echo in the death strip: of what? He wondered who was hoping to escape now.

Maybe it was ghosts.

Prussia slid a cigarette between his lips, and thought of the time he taught Austria how to pack cigarettes. “Put your finger on top,” he had said, “and pound the bottom of the box against your leg.”

Austria bruised too easily. Nothing was Prussia’s fault. Bruises on his thighs, finger-marks on his neck; bite-marks in various, unmentionable places, covered by old coats and cravats.

Nothing was Prussia’s fault. Austria was too fragile. His coat ‘old’ due to miserly, stubborn behavior: stone-set in his old ways.

They were all getting old, and what can you do to change it? No way to escape it. Except over the wall, and into the death strip, and then you get shot, so why bother? Why even try.

Prussia marched along in his own make-believe parade. A funeral procession; a one-man demonstration of protest against anything and everything.

He clutched his heart, and drew breath, and breathed smoke. Inhale, and exhale, and God damn freezing cold weather. Lonesome nights.

Russia drunk, and praying to no one, and who would listen anyway?

God was dead, and the allies dissolved him. Or wait, maybe that was Prussia they dissolved. No matter. Who cares. God was living –- alive and well -– and Satan kept the fire warm for anyone and everyone: Prussia was sure of it.

“Maybe I’ll go home and write to Austria,” he thought. “Apologize for all those bruises I’ve caused.”

But it still wasn’t his fault.

Russia would block all his words and apologies anyway. No 'I love you’ at the end. Just 'damn this’, and 'fuck that’, and 'What do you mean, you don’t miss me?! Of course you miss me. Don’t lie in your letters, Austria. I need something to keep me going.’

The thought of a little brother occupied by countries who called Prussia the bane of Europe wasn’t exactly bliss.

The remaining days. Long and cruel and quiet.

“You can only eat so much snow on an empty stomach before you start believing it’s food,” he wrote. “You can only smoke so many cigarettes, before you start to feel like a broken machine. You can only hear so many ghosts scream before you want to join them, and you can only believe in God for so long, you start to wonder…at what point, is it okay not to believe.”

The rest was blacked out. A rambling eulogy in advance. A soliloquy of a man who dreamed too seldom, and cursed too often.

“Fuck,” he signed off. “I love you, and I miss you, and you miss me, too. I’m sorry I left my mark on you. Maybe you can wash it with soap. Disinfect your soul. Borrow Germany’s push-broom. Hearts get dusty, too.”


End file.
